


Brand New Chapter

by scintilla10



Category: Unfit to Print - K. J. Charles
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Moving, Moving In Together, Post-Canon, Relationship Discussions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:15:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28126737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scintilla10/pseuds/scintilla10
Summary: Vikram’s eyes sought Gil out immediately, a flattering habit that never failed to make Gil feel a fluttery and possessive feeling in his belly. This time, when their eyes met, Vikram’s mouth lifted into a grin that suggested Gil was wearing a healthy layer of dust.Gil smiled back ruefully. “What a sight for sore eyes,” he said.~~~Gil sells up and opens a new bookshop.
Relationships: Gil Lawless/Vikram Pandey
Comments: 25
Kudos: 39
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Brand New Chapter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lexie (wakeupnew)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wakeupnew/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, wakeupnew!
> 
> With thanks to [x] for the beta.

Weak morning sunlight filtered through a thick layer of dust on the shop’s front windows, casting splinters of light across the floor. At its brightest, the light caught on the dust floating in the air. The shop was dirty as a rat’s nest, and lined with empty shelves, many of which were in ill repair. There was no fire in the grate. In fact, the grate was badly in need of a shovel. 

Gil Lawless stood in the centre of the room and gazed around.

This small, unassuming shop in an uncertain state of repair was his. The sign outside still needed painting, but it was Gil’s very own bookshop. Not William Dugdale’s legacy to a scrappy boy. Not an occupation he had settled into to spite his family. 

No longer vulnerable to the damned Society for the Suppression of Vice, or the lingering fear of the dark gates of Pentonville.

He took a deep breath to try to calm his racing heart. After all, this was a new start, and Gil had never been afraid of hard work.

Crates of stock from his old shop were piled in the middle of the floor. They were packed with Dickens and Radcliffe -- his other stock had been sold along with the shop on Holywell Street to a man from Bristol who was perfectly aware of the kind of street he was moving into. 

Gil’s new shop was a former stationer’s, and had been gathering dust for several months before he had signed a bill of sale. The empty shop had low ceilings, and the shelves were not the only thing in a sorry state. To Gil’s calculating eye, the dirt and damage was on the surface, though -- the structure was in decent condition.

Sunil would be arriving soon, with a mop and bucket. Gil might have to send him out to buy or borrow a hammer to fix up the shelves. Gil had a hammer of his own, but he was damned if he could remember which crate it had been packed into.

The door pushed open, bringing a rush of sunlight into the shop’s stale air. “Hullo, Mr. Lawless!” Sunil said cheerfully as he came inside.

Gil smiled at him, and said, “Morning.” 

Sunil gave a wide-eyed glance around the room, taking in the state of the place. He straightened his shoulders, and raised an eyebrow at Gil. 

“Well, this is a right mess you’ve got yourself into,” he said.

“Don’t I know it,” Gil said, grinning. “A right mess to call my own.”

Sunil shrugged, and gave a slight smile in return.

Sunil was earnest and hard-working. By noon, they were both filthy with dirt and sweat, and when Vikram came in through the shop’s front door with bread, cheese, and pickles for their luncheon, Gil was so hungry he could have happily kissed Vikram in front of Sunil and the wide open door without a care in the world.

Vikram’s eyes sought Gil out immediately, a flattering habit that never failed to make Gil feel a fluttery and possessive feeling in his belly. This time, when their eyes met, Vikram’s mouth lifted into a grin that suggested Gil was wearing a healthy layer of dust. 

Gil smiled back ruefully. “What a sight for sore eyes,” he said.

“Can you tear yourself away from your labours?” Vikram asked. “You look like you need it. And you, too, Sunil.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pandey!” Sunil said. 

Gil went upstairs to fetch a fresh bowl of water to wipe off the worst of the dust, leaving Sunil to show off the shelves he’d been repairing. He was still a little shy around Vikram, even though he’d picked up what Gil and Vikram were to one another with a swiftness that felt to Gil to be an embarrassing blow to his subtlety. 

Sunil hastily wiped his face and hands with the cold water, and gratefully accepted the food from Vikram. 

“Here.” 

Vikram took the damp cloth from Gil’s hand with a wry grin. Holding Gil’s chin steady with one hand, he carefully wiped Gil’s forehead, then moved on to gently clean his nose, cheekbones, jaw, mouth. Gil held his breath, eyes closed. The water was cold, but Gil’s shiver was as much at the carefulness of the gesture as the temperature.

Vikram let go of his chin and met his eyes again, smiling a soft and private smile that immediately made Gil wish the cheerful, irreplaceable Sunil to hell and back.

“Hello,” Vikram said softly.

“Hello,” Gil said. He added, “I could eat a horse. Didn’t happen to bring one with you, did you?”

“Just bread and cheese,” Vikram said.

“And pickles!” said Sunil.

“You’re a life-saver,” Gil said, and found that he meant it with his whole heart.

~~~

With Sunil’s help, Gil made solid progress on cleaning the shop over the next few days, including fixing up the shelves and other minor repairs. They’d even made a start on unpacking some of the crates and putting books in their places.

Gil introduced himself to the printer across the street when the man came out to glower at the freshly painted sign hung above Gil’s door. The man had squinted in disapproval, but grudgingly offered his name and, when Gil had asked, recommended a nearby pub with a decent dinner. 

It was a tepid welcome to the street, but Gil would take what he could. Paternoster Row was a narrow street with booksellers, publishers, and printers ranging up and down on either side. The fact that the Row was still only a short walk to the law offices at Lincoln’s Inn had been only a small factor in Gil’s decision to purchase the place.

There was also the fact that the set of rooms above the shop included two tiny bedrooms, suitable enough for a single gentleman to rent out a room to another bachelor. 

Gil hadn’t said a word of that to Vikram yet, but he thought -- he hoped --

He wasn't usually one to balk at a jump. This one, though. This one might be the highest leap he'd ever faced, and he was strong enough to admit he didn't want to look down. Soon. Soon he’d be brave enough to ask.

His daydreams of waking up next to Vikram every morning wouldn’t amount to much if he couldn’t make a living here. He knew that he had decent knowledge of the book trade, even after excising his particular expertise in works unfit to print. He thought he might be able to turn his hand to publishing, too, eventually.

For now, though, he was one bookseller among many on the Row.

On Saturday, long after Sunil had gone home, Vikram returned to the shop to help Gil unpack some of his crates. Two weeks ago, Gil had made lewd promises to engage Vikram’s services, and had only been slightly chagrined when Vikram had replied, gently, “Of course I will help. It is no obligation to help the ones we love.”

Gil’s disappointment at this response had been only a little mollified by the phrase “the ones we love,” but he was even more gratified by the way Vikram’s eyes had lingered on his mouth.

“A reward, then,” he had murmured, letting his eyelashes drop over his eyes in a way that tended to make Vikram’s breath pick up. “Freely offered.”

“Oh,” Vikram had said, kissing him. “Oh. Well, that’s different.”

For now, Vikram’s services included setting books on the shelves under the window. He looked warm and solid in the light of the candles, as though he belonged here in Gil’s new home. Gil idly anticipated wrapping his fingers around Vikram’s wrist to tug him upstairs for the first time. He hadn’t managed to clean out all the rooms yet, and for the past few nights, he had been falling into exhausted sleep on the narrow bed by the fire. Satan was probably already curled on the bed by the pillows, a spot he had laid claim to almost immediately. 

Vikram would look good there, too.

He hummed softly under his breath and emptied another pile of books onto the counter to sort.

Vikram held up a book to the light. “ _Miss Tickler’s Tales_ ,” he read. “Was this supposed to stay behind?”

“Oh,” Gil said, absently, trying to remember if he’d already found a shelf for detective stories yet. “Yeah, that’s one of mine. Put it behind the desk, will you?”

There was a long pause. Gil looked up to see the thick furrow of Vikram’s brows over his down-turned face.

“This is one of yours,” Vikram repeated.

It took Gil a damnably long moment to realize that it was possible that Vikram had not seen any of the books Gil had penned. 

Selling up and moving Gilbert Lawless, Bookseller had taken up enough of his time that Gil had never returned to writing further chapters of _Miss Larch’s School of Discipline_. Vikram had never warmed to the idea of Gil’s profession, and his disinclination to discuss details meant that while Gil had mentioned his secondary income from writing, Vikram hadn’t come face to face with it before. In the flesh, as it were.

Gil wondered what was running through that arrow-straight mind of his.

He went for the light-hearted and practical response. “A few naughty fucks strung together with a thin excuse of a plot,” he said. “It sells very well.” Then, with some impishness, he added, “I found it’s a good strategy to include some of the most popular activities. Flogging, for example.”

The furrow of Vikram’s brow deepened, impossibly serious. He lifted his head to meet Gil’s gaze, his dark eyes intense in a way that made Gil shiver.

“Popular,” he said. “I see.”

His tone made Gil’s spine stiffen, feeling a prickling of defensiveness. “Writing books about people fucking doesn’t hurt anyone,” he said. It was a line from a familiar set of arguments, and he didn’t like singing the same song again. “Some folks like to read about other folks having a bit of fun.” 

Vikram looked back down at the book in his hands, and then up at Gil again. He smiled, but in a forced way that made Gil stiffen further. 

“It came as a surprise,” he said. “I know your trade, of course -- your former trade. I know that you wrote, too, of course. I suppose I hadn’t quite imagined … Miss Tickler.”

Nettled, Gil stomped over and snatched it out of his hands. “Never mind, then,” he said. 

Vikram’s eyes were dark in the candlelight. “Gil,” he said softly.

Gil took a breath. “I’m leaving Miss Tickler behind with Holywell Street,” he said. “Any future scribblings I do will be gothic adventures suitable for sale by any bookseller in London.”

“That isn’t --” Vikram said, and stopped. 

Gil wasn’t able to leave all of his past behind him, even if he wanted to. Better for Vikram to understand that sooner rather than later. If it meant that he couldn’t -- Well. Gil couldn’t change who he was, after all.

His heart ached. 

“Come upstairs, Vik,” he said softly. 

Upstairs, Vikram kissed him with a yearning that made Gil’s stomach flutter and his blood run hot. His fingers lingered on Gil’s face and curled into his hair, scratching at Gil’s skull and tugging lightly. Gil put his face into Vikram’s neck, mouthing at the hot and tender skin, as he shivered under Vikram’s big, elegant hands.

Satan was nowhere in sight, and Gil sent a prayer of thanks that the beast had disappeared at the most opportune time for once in his mangy life.

Vikram said, breathlessly, “Gil, Gil,” and pressed him down onto the bed. Gil kissed him again, hands digging posessively around Vikram’s shoulders. He could feel Vikram’s cock against his thigh and arched up thoughtlessly into the pressure.

“No,” Vikram said suddenly, and rolled off him.

Gil went still. “What --” 

Vikram covered his face with his hands. “Ah, Gil,” he said. “I’m a fool.”

“You’re a damn fool to stop what you were doing with your tongue just now,” Gil said feelingly. His heart raced. 

Vikram turned on his side to look at Gil. He wasn’t touching him any more, and Gil felt unaccountably cold even with the nearby heat of the banked fire. 

Vikram said, fumbling over his words with uncharacteristic awkwardness, “It was foolish of me to say what I did. It wasn’t what I meant to say, and I wounded you.”

 _Wounded me_ , Gil thought dizzily. 

“So you didn’t mean to act the moralizing self-righteous lawyer,” he said, more sharply than he meant to.

Vikram made a face. “No,” he said. “No.”

“What did you mean, then?”

Vikram glanced at him and then away. “As I said, it was foolish. I hadn’t realized until I was holding the book in my hand that in writing it you must have spent rather a lot of time thinking about -- sex.” Vikram looked up at the ceiling. “And all of the -- popular activities.”

“Yes,” Gil said drily. “The art of fucking is the spring from which my creativity bursts forth.”

“Yes -- no. What I mean is -- ” He broke off, biting his lip.

Gil stared at him, startled into a sudden moment of clarity. “You’re jealous,” he said.

“Absolutely not!” Vikram said, affronted. 

But Gil was laughing with a sudden rush of relief. “You are! You’re jealous of all the fucking I wrote about before you showed up at my door again.”

Vikram frowned at him, and Gil grinned back. “I could read them to you in bed,” he offered wickedly, biting his lip in a suggestive way.

Vikram made a moue of distaste, and avoided Gil’s gaze. “I do not believe Miss Tickler would be my perversion of choice.”

Gil laughed delightedly. “Oh?” he said. “Tell me more about your preferred perversions.”

Vikram ducked his head. “Gil,” he protested.

“Vik,” he said softly, and he reached out his hand to clasp Vikram’s hand in his. The way Vikram’s long slender fingers curled around his immediately made his heart catch in his chest. “Vik, I don’t write about me. Or my own desires.”

“No?” Vikram said, not meeting his eyes. “It’s a lot of words to expend on something that is meaningless.”

“It’s a lot of money for those words,” Gil pointed out. “Which isn’t meaningless at all.”

“Great Scott, Gil,” Vikram said, and sat up. “I am not an idiot! Of course I know you make money off the things.” He huffed, and Gil fell silent, watching him. “Your writing is so prolific and, as you say, sells very well. And it does not precisely -- match what we do in the bedroom together.”

Gil stared at him. 

“Oh, you are an idiot!” he exclaimed. 

Vikram pulled back, startled, and then frowned at him.

Gil sat up, climbing into Vikram’s lap, pleased when Vikram’s hands settled unerringly on his hips. He leaned towards Vikram, meeting those liquid dark eyes, and letting his fingers smooth out the furrows of Vikram’s frown. His hands drifted gently into Vikram’s thick hair, and he nosed softly at Vikram’s hairline, breathing softly on his skin. 

“Do you imagine that when I kiss you I’m thinking about anything but you? The way you taste. The way your lips open under mine. The way your heart beats under my tongue.”

Vikram’s mouth fell open a little, his breath coming faster.

Gil flicked his tongue against Vikram’s earlobe, pressing their bodies closer. Vikram felt so strong, so sturdy beneath him, with those thick thighs of his. Gil felt full of impossible wanting, to keep Vikram here with him, to curl up forever into his arms, to fall asleep every night with both Vikram and his damn cat under their very own roof.

“Vik,” he murmured. “Vik. What I write about doesn’t matter a jot when I’m in bed with you.”

Vikram gave a low moan, turning his head to seek out Gil’s mouth. Gil licked across Vikram’s lower lip, sucking it slowly into his mouth until Vikram was gasping.

He pulled back and waited until Vikram blinked back at him.

“I want to make sure you understand this, right?” he said. “It’s a job, Vik. I like writing, I like sex, and it’s fun to write about. It doesn’t mean I want Miss Tickler to turn me over her knee.”

Vikram’s eyes got dark, and his hands clenched on Gil’s waist. Gil grinned at him, and wound his arm around Vikram’s neck. “I don’t have a taste for flogging myself, but fuck do I have a taste for you,” he went on softly. “If you’re interested in flogging, or if you’re interested in turning _me_ over your knee -- well, count me interested, too.”

Vikram said, voice shaky, “Gil. You know that I haven’t the experience you do.”

Gil hesitated, then said, voice low, “I wasn’t joking about reading Miss Tickler to you in bed. If you want more ideas of your own.” Vikram’s eyes were wide, and he didn’t blink. “I know you lawyers like to do your research. It needn’t be Miss Tickler -- I’ll read _Jonathan_ to you, if you prefer. I’ll whisper it into your ear while I touch you, stroke your cock --”

Vikram let out a groan and shut his eyes. His cheeks were hot. Gil kissed him swiftly on the mouth. “I can make words up, too,” he added. “I can open my mouth and tell you the filthy things I want to do to you all night long.”

“Gil --” Vikram said, panting.

“You’re what I want, Vik,” he murmured against Vikram’s lips. “Tell me what you want.”

Vikram kissed him, hot and open-mouthed, his hands splayed across Gil’s back. 

“It took me so long to find you,” Vikram said helplessly, and Gil’s hand tightened in his hair. “For so long, I’ve only been waiting to find you. I haven’t your imagination, Gil --”

“Fuck imagination,” Gil said savagely. “You know me better than anyone. If all we ever do is this, just this, that would mean more to me than --”

Vikram kissed him, hard.

“Yes,” he managed. “All right. I -- I want that. Read me your blasted filth in that voice of yours --”

Gil was a little light-headed, but he couldn’t help being smug at that. He grinned. “Oh? Tell me more about this voice of mine --”

“Later,” Vikram said and kissed him again.

~~~

Afterwards, Vikram said, softly, “Did you mean it? About writing gothic adventure novels?”

Gil turned his head. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he said. “I could set up as a publisher here, too.”

Vikram took hold of his hand, pulling it up to his mouth and kissing Gil’s fingertips softly. “Gilbert Lawless, Bookseller and Publisher,” he said. “You’ll need a new sign.”

Gil smiled and then, before he lost his nerve, said, “There are two rooms up here.”

Vikram stilled and looked at him. 

“A fellow could easily rent a room to a friend,” he added.

Vikram said, carefully, “A friend would be very pleased by the opportunity.”

Gil’s heart felt too big for his chest, and he smiled helplessly at Vikram.

“Satan wouldn’t mind an extra person around the place?” Vikram added.

Gil snorted. “He’ll probably sit on your lap more often than mine.”

“I hope he’ll give you a chance to sit on my lap, too,” Vikram said, and Gil laughed outright.

“What was that about a lack of imagination?”

Vikram shook his head, but he was smiling. He kissed Gil’s fingertips again.

“That first time I saw you in your bookshop, you had ink on your fingers,” Vikram said.

“Did I?” Gil murmured. 

“It was so familiar. Just as I remembered you in school.”

Gil cast a smile up at him. “And now, a new chapter,” he said. “That we can write together.” Impishly, he added, “And with no flogging in it.”

Vikram scowled at him, but broke into a smile when Gil pulled him down to kiss him.

“No flogging,” he agreed. “Plenty of kissing.”

“Done,” Gil said, and kissed him again.

~~~

Sunil didn’t bat an eye when Gil told him that Vikram would be his new lodger. The printer across the street gave Vikram a sullen look, but grunted in acknowledgement when Vikram introduced himself and reluctantly shook his hand.

Meanwhile, Satan immediately sprawled on Vikram’s still-packed suitcase and bared a casually threatening claw when Vikram tried to coax him into moving.

“A more enthusiastic reception could not have been asked for,” Vikram said in exasperation, and sank with a harried look into the armchair.

“I agree with the cat,” Gil said. “You don’t need to wear clothes.”

Vikram scoffed at him, but his eyes were soft.

Vikram’s parents had invited Gil to dinner next week. To hear Vikram tell it, they were delighted he had reconnected with his boyhood friend from school. Gil wasn’t sure if he or Vikram were more nervous.

But in the meantime, he was looking forward to rolling over to kiss Vikram soundly each morning and to watching him stride off to work down Paternoster Row. He was looking forward to nights out at operas that he didn’t understand, and hot meals at the pub where the landlord had started to recognize their faces, and evenings at home in their armchairs side by side in front of the fire. He was very much looking forward to Vikram in his bed every night, where they were still learning each others' desires and where there was no damned lack of imagination.

“Rest assured," Gil said, his heart full, "you are very enthusiastically received."

He bent his head to press his mouth to Vikram's, as if he could express everything he felt with one simple kiss.

"I'm glad of it," Vikram said.

“Welcome home," Gil added softly and stooped again to kiss Vikram's gentle smile.


End file.
